


Questa Notte

by Dulcinea



Category: Metallica
Genre: Emotional, Insecurity, M/M, POV First Person, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 09:57:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5493023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dulcinea/pseuds/Dulcinea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James tries to change Lars's mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Questa Notte

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Ludovico Einaudi's music. Title from one of his songs. Done in James's POV. Set in modern day (2008/2009 is what I had in mind).
> 
> Again, this is a VERY old fic.

I know Lars so well. I know what he thinks, how he feels, without the words. For all his mouth is known for, he says nothing when something truly bothers him. He'll distract the world from his inner most problems with his stories and they'll fall right into his trap, just like he wants. No one will notice the mask he puts on. No one will see it. But I will. Because I know him. I truly know him.

Lars rarely lets anything get to him. He's so full of confidence, so thick-skinned, that people mistake it as arrogance, but he loves who he is. He won't change himself for anyone, not even me. He'll only change for his own sake. It's one of the reasons why I love him so much. He has faith in himself, in me, and in us when I can't. He's my rock when I have nothing sturdy to hold me up. He's my greatest motivator and supporter. I'm so lucky to have him. 

That's why the past week has been so hard. It hurts to see the cracks in his confidence. He doesn't know that I know. Sometimes he underestimates how well I do know him. I've noticed how he curses when he runs a hand through his hair. I've seen how he frowns when he rubs his stomach. I've watched how he sighs when he looks at the bags under his eyes. These are the little things no one else would catch, except me. 

He's still his ever bubbly dynamic self but it's so obvious something is off. He shrugs more than he laughs. He stays away from others more than he includes himself. I have no idea what caused him to be like this, but I'm going to stop it. I know him well enough to know what to do, and I'll do it happily just to see him love himself again. 

I wait for the week break between shows before I start my plan of action. We spend Monday lounging in the house, shaking off our jet lag and tour exhaustion. On Tuesday I set up a nice, quiet night out for two the following day. When Wednesday night rolls around, I dress in my best outfit and coax Lars into his own. He looks so good in a black turtleneck, blue scarf and jeans, but I hate that he wears his sunglasses and hat to dinner. He knows I don't care what he looks like, but I'm sure he doesn't care what I think. Lars doesn't like how he looks so he's going to hide his flaws as best he can. What he considers flaws I perceive as beautiful. But he won't take my word for it. I know telling him won't be enough. Showing him is the only way. 

The dinner is candlelit and low-key. We eat Italian food on the upstairs patio in Fisherman's Warf and watch the sunset on the Bay. When the sky turns purple Lars takes off his sunglasses, but he doesn't look me in the eye like I wish he would. He doesn't even take off his hat. He tries to distract me with his usual funny stories but that won't work on me. I stop him midway and feign tiredness. He meets my eye and measures the weight of my request, calculates if I'm truthful or bullshitting. And in that look, I know what he's thinking: is James really tired or is he annoyed with me? It's disconcerting Lars thinks this way but it's how he is when he doesn't fully like himself. 

Eventually he smiles and agrees with me, finishing his story as I pay for the bill. His hands animatedly explain the end as we enter the car and head home. He quiets down when we hit traffic on the bridge, twining his hand into mine. Some of his vulnerability emerges in its usual subtle ways. He squeezes our hands, leans his cheek on my shoulder, sighs into my shirt. He needs some balance, some stability, and I know this by the way he stays close to me as we drive all the way home. 

We detach from each other when I put the car in park in our driveway. Lars stays by my side as we walk to our front door, his hand brushing mine. He's quiet like I am. The only sounds between us are our feet squeaking on the patio, the key unlocking our front door and the loud shut behind us.

Lars walks in front of me, sighing as he shrugs off his leather jacket. He throws it on the couch, followed by his scarf and hat. He toes off his boots and picks his socks off his feet, throwing that to the couch too. I don't want him undressing any further. I want to be the one who does that. 

Just as his hands grip the ends of his shirt, I drape my large own over his and hold them. 

Lips against his ear, my front pressed against his warm back, I whisper, “Wait." 

He shivers. His hands unravel underneath my own. "I thought you were tired..."

"A little, yeah." My lips curl into a smile besides his ear. "I just really wanted to get us out of there."

Our fingers twining together again as he leans backwards into me. "I knew it." He turns his head and looks up at up, eyebrows raised. "For what though? Is there a game on the TV tonight?"

I shake my head and lean in to plant a kiss on his cheekbone. "I want to play a game with you."

He rolls his eyes and snorts, wriggling against me. "Ugh. I'm not in the mood for anything kinky."

"Neither am I." 

I lift my hands away from his. He turns around to face me as I reach into my front pocket and take out the black scarf I placed there earlier. 

His reaction is the one I expected: another exaggerated, overdramatic eye-roll. 

"Well, _that_ says differently."

I grin, keeping our eyes locked as I step forward until we're chest-to-chest. My lips ghost his but I don't lean in for a kiss. I watch how his green eyes widen in surprise then flutter into a heavy lidded state. Our noses rub against each other and I feel his lips part underneath mine. I can smell his cologne, taste the food he ate as he breathes onto me. It's so tempting to lean in and kiss him now, to pull him closer to me and devour his mouth, but I resist it. I can't go in blindly. I can't succumb to my lust for him. I have a purpose tonight. I don't need to prove my love; he knows that I love him. I have to reaffirm inside him that he deserves to be loved, that he should love himself like I love him. 

My hands rest on his waistline, holding him close to my pelvis, the black scarf pressing into my palm, into his side. His hands leave his hips and grip mine, fingers in the loopholes of my jeans. The living room is so quiet, save our breathing. 

I look into his darkened green eyes and keep my focus on him, only him, as I ask, "Do you trust me?" 

"Yes."

I smile. Something inside me swells at emotion I see in his green eyes. I rub our noses together.

"The game is simple,” I tell him. “You can speak, touch, move around... but you don't see anything. You have to let me be your eyes. That's why the game is called 'trust.' Can you do that babe?"

He licks his lips slowly and I feel his tongue so close to touching my own lips. His nod is so subtle, but I see it. His answer of 'yes' is so faint, but I hear it. He trusts me. 

I finally give into temptation and descend my lips over his. 

Our tongues touch, sliding together in a dance we know so well. It's not fast or desperate. It's slow and gentle. I'm breathing him like he's breathing me. I've done this with him for so long that I know I won't ever get tired of it. He feels so good against me, in my arms. I'll always want him like no other.

I break the kiss, our lips gently parting. He rubs his nose against mine and I smile. 

I'm as shaky as he is as I hold the scarf in both my hands and lean back in for another kiss. 

He responds by leaning into me, into the scarf. 

I wrap it around his head and tie it firm.

He trusts me. He's going to let this happen. 

When it's secured, I slip my hands down his head to his neck, cup both sides fully and thumb his jawline. I let the kiss peter out, slowly becoming less intense and needy until our lips release a gentle smack between us. 

I press our foreheads together. I breathe him, smell him, hold him to me. He trembles underneath my hands, his fingers clinging to my shirt, a silent plea for me not to leave him. I don't want to move as much as he does. The sensational heat between us leaves me wanting. 

I pull back a little and open my eyes. And I see him. This vulnerable side of him. His red cheeks, red lips and blindfolded eyes. Sweat collects on the side of his face, on his brow, down to his chin. 

He looks so beautiful. 

"Do you really trust me?" I ask.

"Yes."

I thumb the side of his parted lips.

I love this man.

I place my hands over his, pulling his fingers away from my shirt. He pulls them to his sides as I circle around, watching his face, his body. How still he is. The nervous energy is there, but he’s trusting me by waiting. 

I stand behind him, sliding my arms between his pits, sinking my elbows into the crooks of his own, until our fingertips meet and our hands twine together. 

My lips rest against his ear so he can hear me. My chest presses onto his back so he can feel me. My hands squeeze his own so he can trust me. 

“Let me guide you," I whisper into his ear. "Let me help you."

He nods and squeezes back. 

No fear. No hesitation. 

I kiss the back of his head, emotion choking my throat.

We walk to our bedroom one step at a time. It's difficult standing behind him as we walk up the stairs, but we manage. Whenever I stumble or he stumbles, we break the tension with our laughter and our kisses. 

Inside our bedroom, I move around him, hands still on his body to ease his worry, until I stand in front again. 

I take my time relieving him of his clothes. My fingers touch his skin as I remove his shirt, tickling down his sternum when he's bare-chested. His hands blindly reach out to me and I grab them gently, guiding them to my neck. Lars's smile is wobbly, a little afraid, as he grasps the junctures between my neck and shoulders firmly. 

I lean forward and pepper kisses on his face, neck and collarbones. He helpfully steps out of his jeans and briefs as I slip them off, kicking them playfully to the side. We giggle together, my hands gliding over his warm, naked skin. I can feel the last remnants of his anxiety under my palms and I kiss his forehead.

"Trust me." 

Our hands twine. 

Lars smiles, and says, ”I do." 

I swallow against the lump in my throat as I raise our clasps hands to my lips and kiss his knuckles.

I guide him to the bed, helping him lean backwards onto it. He lets go of my hands when he lands on the mattress, scoots himself backwards blindly and lays down in the middle. I remove all my clothes swiftly, scattering them on the floor without thought. 

I lay on top of him on the bed, arms and legs flanking his head and his hips. Lars doesn't look anxious. He doesn't look afraid. He knows I'm there. 

His hands leave the bed to land on my bare torso. He tilts his head up, lips seeking mine, and I sink into a soft kiss that rocks the room and dizzies my head. 

My hands reach for his on my chest and I remove them, gently planting them to the bed. I reluctantly end the kiss and lean upwards to his forehead. As much as I want to make love to him now, it's not time yet. I can't forget what I have to do.

I rub my nose against his hairline, breathing in the smell of his shampoo. My lips ghost his forehead and as I expected, one of his hands tries to bat me away from there like it's forbidden territory. But I am not deterred. I reach out for his hand again and plant it back down to the mattress, holding it firmly there. 

"Don't move," I murmur against his forehead. "Let me touch you."

He shivers. "James..."

"Shh. Not a word. Don't say anything." I release his hand, slide my palms down his slack arms. "Just feel me."

I kiss him again, his lips, his cheeks. Lars's hands stay curled on the bed, arms slack and pliant like his mouth. He tries to speak, tries to form words, but all he can do is sigh and moan the way I like it. 

My lips drag down his neck to his collarbones, kissing his skin from one side to the other. He moans my name as I lavish his nipples with wet attention, the ring clinking against my teeth. His fingers twitch and flex on the bed, his back arching into me, and I wait for the right moment, when I know he isn't thinking, before I sweep my hands through his hair. 

He gasps softly as my fingers comb through, swiping and playing with the short locks. I run my nose on his hairline, breathing him in, and his shaky hands are there, as I expected, trying to push me away.

"Don't..."

My lips stay on his forehead as I grab his wrists in my hands and plant them down again to the bed.

"No."

"James--"

"What?"

"Stop it."

"Why?"

He doesn't give me an answer. He jerks underneath me, tries to yank his wrists away from my grip, but I won't let go. I won't let him keep doing this to himself. 

I lay my whole weight down on him, keeping him in place. 

"Why are you doing this, Lars?" I drag my lips across his forehead. "Why are you hiding from me?"

He jerks his head away from me. "I'm not hiding from anything."

"Then why won't you let me touch you?"

He says nothing again as he redoubles his efforts in getting away. But he can't move. I'm bigger and heavier than him, and I'm more determined too. He's not going to win. Not this time.

Lars slumps beneath me, sighing. "Let me go."

"Not yet."

"I don't want to play anymore, James. I want to go to sleep."

"Then answer my question."

"I'm not in the mood anymore. Okay? Now get off me so I can take off the blindfold and sleep."

I squeeze his wrists. "Stop lying to me."

"I'm not."

"Yes you are."

He bucks up, using all of his strength to throw me off, but it won't work. Lars hisses through his teeth, tilting his neck up, growling close to my face. 

"Leave me alone."

I keep my anger at bay. He wants to start a fight so I can let him go. I know him too well. I won't let him win. 

"One condition."

"What?"

"When the _hell_ did you start thinking you were ugly?"

His small gasp is all I need to hear. I finally broke through to him, finally said what needed to be said. The question hangs in the air like a bad odor, and it hurts to see Lars's lips quiver like that, hurts to hear how heavy his breathing gets, but it has to be done. It's what I have to do. 

I tilt my head down, run my nose against his. "Why don't you like yourself anymore?"

"I do..."

"Stop lying." Our foreheads press together. "I don't like it when you lie to yourself or to me. Just be honest. I can take it."

He stays so quiet. Doesn't move or anything. I hear his heavy breathing, feel the shivers underneath me. What I said hurt a wound too close to him, and he's dealing the best he can. Trying not to crumble. Trying not to cry. 

My hands release his wrists to cup his face and tilt his head up. 

"Tell me."

His lips move. 

Out comes a choked sob.

His hands blindly reach out for me, winding around my back, and I press his head to my neck, cradling him. He shivers, he hiccups, he sniffles and he sighs. And I hold him close. I hold him together. 

When the shivers lessen, I push him back to the bed, untying the blindfold wet with his tears. He blinks up at me, red-rimmed eyes begging for my touch, and I kiss him gently, brushing my palms over his head.

"I'm sorry, babe. I didn't mean to push you."

"No, no James, it's okay. Really." He cups his hands behind my neck, holding me there. "I'm the sorry one. I shouldn't have strung you on like that."

"But I don't like it when you cry."

Lars shakes his head. "I needed to. I needed to hear your words." He tickles the back of my head, kissing my lips, breathing against them. "I needed to know you still want me."

I lean back to look into his eyes. "Of course I want you. I always will. I love you. I just don't understand what made you doubt that. Was it something I did?"

"No! God no, you haven't done anything."

"Then what is it?"

"Me." His eyes drift downcast. “Every time I saw myself in the mirror, all I could see was a bald head, a fat belly and lots of wrinkles. I felt... ashamed. Like, no matter how hard I try... I'm not going to stay as handsome as you." He gazes into my eyes again. "I'm old." 

I feel like I'm breaking. 

The way he looks at me -- the resigned acceptance, the self-hate, his sadness -- it hurts. 

I don't like this. I hate this.

I want him happy again.

I rest my palms on his cheeks, our noses brushing together. 

He doesn't move, doesn't escape. He looks into my eyes with that sadness and it wounds me worse than a burn, worse than a cut. 

I whisper to him, drawing out every word with thick meaning.

"I love you Lars. I love you. I will _always_ love you. Whether you're old or bald or fat, I don't care. I love you. I love you for you, and you should too." 

His eyes well up with tears. So do mine.

"I don't know when you started thinking you were ugly, but it's stopping right now. I won't let you think like that any longer. You're loved, Lars. You're loved and wanted and needed and I don't care what anyone says about you. You're fucking beautiful. You'll always be beautiful to me. And I don't know what I have to do to remind you of that, but I will. I promise every day of my fucking life, I will always make sure you feel as beautiful as you should."

I shake his face in my grip, emphasizing my words. 

" _Never_ doubt that. _Never_ doubt who you are and _never_ doubt me." 

I close my eyes, tears pricking beneath my lids. 

"Because I'd be nothing without you."

I feel his hands slide up my face, fingers slipping into my hair. But I can't open my eyes. I don't know think I'm ready to look at him yet.

His lips descend over mine for a brief moment. He whispers against them. 

"I'm sorry, min skat. I'm sorry I did this to you."

He brushes our lips together. He's so warm.

"I know you love me _and_ want me, regardless of how I look. I guess I just... I dunno." 

He presses our noses together, fingers squeezing my hair, as he sighs long and hard. 

"I'm sorry I let it get to me."

I open my wet eyes. 

Lars sadly smiles. 

"I'm sorry I doubted your love."

I don't know what to say to him. I feel like something is ripping inside just by looking at him like this. I see the regret, the hurt, how upset he is, but it isn't for himself. He's upset _he_ hurt _me._

"Lars..."

"Shh. Not a word. Don't say anything." 

I smile as I hear my words used against me now. He closes his eyes, cupping his hands behind my head, kissing my lips, and I pull him to me, wrapping my arms around his shoulders, just as his wrap around my neck. 

I need it. I need him. I want to make love to him like we've never had it before. I want to hear him moan my name like a prayer, chant it over and over as I bring him to a blissful place only I can take him. And I want him to take me with him. I want him to want me too.

And as I gaze into his green eyes, I see the same want and need I feel reflected back at me.

He wraps his legs around my waist, nudges our noses and brushes our lips. 

"Make me feel you."

Our bodies mold together as our eyes close.

"Make me trust you."

And I give him what he needs, what I need, as we kiss and sink into each other skin.


End file.
